Something Invisible

What is invisible?

 

You can’t touch love or misery.

But.

You can see your lover’s eyes light up when you come home. You can see the suffering in a child’s eyes when they huddle in the shadows in the streets.

So, yes, you can see love and misery.

 

So again, what’s invisible?

Hope?

You can see that too.

 

Truth?

Can you see truth?

You can see when someone’s lying…

So doesn’t it follow that you can see when someone is telling the truth?

I think so, yes.

 

What about ghosts?

If we’re going with the ghost theory, then for that theory to exist, that means we believe ghosts are real. Then that means we believe the spirit of a person exists, which, if you were another dead person (spirit) you could see other dead people.

Nope. Not invisible.

 

What is there that science cannot quantify, cannot see on a screen once it’s MRIed it, CAT scanned it, or otherwise broken down and visible under a microscope?

What is there that we cannot, as people, see?

Yes, you can see emotion.

Yes, you can see ideals.

I mean, technically, at least. At the end of it all, you can see these things.

We can’t see gravity but we can see it work. We know it is gravity. It’s visible.

What is left?

What is invisible?

 

Time.

I thought I had it with this one.

Okay, so actually this one wasn’t my idea. But regardless.

This doesn’t work either.

We can see time passing.

We see the effects of time.

 

Nothing is invisible.

Not even our secrets.

 

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This is post #4 in Rara’s #Somethingist challenge. For my original post (which explains things), click here. And then join the challenge!

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The Abyss. The Masquerade.

Do you ever get stuck?

Come up against wall after wall, again and again and again. Until you finally just say screw it?
Do you ever wonder why you’re holding so tightly? Then wonder what it is exactly that you’re holding to?
Do you ever just get tired?
Tired of all the petty, childish, selfish drama of others.
Tired of the same no good, same.
Tired of the pain.
Of the knowing and the incapability to do anything about it.
The correspondence between misery and choice is breath to my lungs.
But I’m still not breathing.
Sometimes the silence is the only thing that keeps me alive.
What do I have but this noise masquerading as life?
What do I have more than a truth I can do nothing about?
What is there but this sadness?
What is there but this madness?
How do I crawl out of the abyss when all I’ve ever known is to suffer? To flounder in the denial.

 

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